The Simple Need to Talk
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: Each day that passed brought Harry a new challenge, but it also brought him further and further from the war. Post-War Drabble. Rated for language. Title from O'Brien's The Things They Carried. ::100 Times Challenge:: WIP.
1. Laughed

So begins the one hundred chapter story of Harry's recovery after the war. If you spot some sort of inconsistancy with the books, please tell me. I'm ashamed to say I can't recall all the facts of the books off the top of my head, and some things slip my mind.

That being said, this is entirely work-in-progress, and I can only hope that I finish it one day.

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Day 001

**The First Day He Laughed After the War**

His bed sunk under the weight of another body, and Harry groaned in his sleep. "Bugger off," he mumbled, drawing his hands over his eyes.

"Mum's got lunch ready," George's voice chirped. "You can't stay in bed all day."

"I won't," Harry assured him, rolling into a more comfortable position. For a moment, he thought George would give up, but he didn't give the boy enough credit. The covers were suddenly ripped off his body. Harry drew himself into a tight ball. "Go away, George!"

"Can't, Harry. Mum's orders."

"Tell her I'm not hungry." He felt a pair of hands try to grip his arms and clumsily fought them away. "George," whined Harry, opening his eyes just to glare at the boy. With a wide grin, George cupped a hand around the hole where his ear used to be.

"Eh? Speak up, lad, my hearing's not what it was!"

Harry didn't know what to make of it. He stared, blinked. Something bubbled in his chest, and escaped from his lips in a huff of air. Laughter. Harry had nearly forgotten what it felt like. Almost guiltily, he stifled the noise and glanced up at the other boy with wide eyes. Then they _both_ laughed. They just sat down on that bed and laughed at themselves until Molly Weasley shouted for them downstairs.

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	2. Cried

**Day 002**

**The First Day He Cried After the War**

He couldn't seem to summon the photo album. Harry could see it sitting right on the shelf in plain sight, and he was only a few feet away, at most. But his spell wasn't working.

"_Accio_ album," he tried again.

It didn't even quiver.

Some sort of unspoken principle kept him seated. He could have easily retrieved the album himself, but that still didn't solve the problem he was having with his magic. Harry glowered at it and subtly leaned forward.

"_Accio_ photo album. _Accio_. _Accio_!"

Finally, it gave a lurch and toppled to the ground, spilling photos everywhere. He could see some of the pictures waving at him from the floor, all smiles.

But Harry didn't move. His blood surged inside of him — it was a feeling that forced him to draw his breath in hoarse gasps. Tears leaked out of his eyes as he clutched his wand in a death-grip.

He was useless.

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	3. Dreamed

**Day 003**

**The First Day He Dreamed After the War**

The light was warm on Harry's face. He was lounging outside now, watching the sun lazily kiss the horizon before it sank out of sight. The sky turned a hazy orange, and he sat back and just thought. The Ministry was using him as some sort of poster boy for peace now, and he was here at the Burrow to stay out of the limelight. Surprisingly, it was the joint effort of Mrs. Weasley and George that kept the reporters at bay. Mrs. Weasley had even made a photographer cry yesterday, much to Harry's amusement.

But it felt horrible to have to sit and do nothing when there was just . . . so much to be done. It was as if he were a child again. He even had a bedtime.

The sun was barely visible now. Sighing, Harry removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his brow. If only he could escape somewhere, some tropical island where he could hide away. He didn't have to tell anyone. Hell, he didn't even need to pack. He had a wand.

A surge of excitement pushed him to his feet, but his smile faltered.

He couldn't go. He wasn't a normal boy that could just run away, no matter how many times he wished to be. He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One.

Shaking himself from his dream, he paused to watch the sun disappear before he stepped back inside.

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	4. Kissed

**Day 004**

**The First Day He Kissed After the War**

The baby arrived in the morning by care of Hagrid. He was a tiny little thing, with almond-shaped eyes and a dark mop of blue hair. He definitely took after Tonks.

All of the Weasleys passed him around, alternately cooing and rocking the tiny bundle to the point where Harry wondered why babies put up with it at all. Finally, it was his turn. Ginny arranged the infant in Harry's arms, adjusting the wrap around his tiny frame gently while Harry awkwardly cocked his elbow upwards. "Am I doing this right?"

"Just fine, Harry."

He grinned and turned back to his godson. "Er . . . hi." Teddy opened his eyes and gurgled. A few happy kicks collided with Harry's chest. "I'm your godfather." He smiled as he said the words. "Can you say that? Godfather?" The baby seemed to try really hard for a moment, but he finally resorted to more joyful laughter. And Harry laughed too. Seized by a whim, he placed his lips on the crown of Teddy's head, and was amazed at how soft his skin was, and how fragile he suddenly seemed in his arms.

Harry vowed there and then to never let him down.

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	5. Hugged

**Day 005**

**The First Day He Hugged After the War**

"Well, I'd best be goin'," the half-giant announced as he rose from the breakfast table. "I've got ter get back to Hogwarts. Rebuildin', ye know."

"We were glad to have you, Hagrid," Mrs. Weasley said, patting his arm as she bustled by with another plate of sausage. "You're welcome anytime." Harry knew anyone was welcome; Mrs. Weasley often forgot that they were one less these days, so there was always an extra plate at the table.

Hagrid traveled around, saying his goodbyes to each person in turn. He tickled Teddy's cheeks, clapped an oversized hand on Mr. Weasley's back, and enveloped almost all of the Weasley children in a bone-crunching embrace.

Then he turned to Harry, and he opened his arms.

Harry hesitated. He almost didn't know what to do. Uncertainly, he took a small step forward, just one. Hagrid's eyes were smiling.

Mustering his courage, Harry bounded into the half-giant's arms, trying to hug as much of him as he could. His whole body shook with emotion, but the tangles of beard in his face and the scent of the woods was almost as comforting as the tree-trunk sized arms suspending him in the air.

When he finally pulled away, dazed, the only thing he could think of saying was _thank you_.


	6. Killed

**Day 006**

**The First Day He Killed After the War**

He pumped the can a few times more, aiming the hose at the last of the weeds. The backyard at the Burrow was, at last, clear of thistles and stickers. With a sigh, Harry let the can drop and settled down next to it. He could still make out the brown patches of weeds among the high grasses. He'd pull them up later, but now he wanted to rest.

A flash of orange caught his eyes. He cocked his head to see the cause better. Up ahead, resting on a wilted patch of dandelions, a lone butterfly unhurriedly fluttered its wings.

Harry reached for it. The bug climbed into his outstretched hand without hesitation, tickling his palm. When he brought it closer, it tried to fly away with a rush of wings — but it could not. Its wings, he saw with a jolt, were coated with weed killer. In a panic, he pulled out his wand and banished the sticky fluid with a whisper. The butterfly flapped again, teetered, and was suddenly quite still.

Dead.

He cradled the creature in his hand as he crouched in the tall grasses, fighting for different ideas to bring it back to life. None came to mind.

It must have been hours later, years later, when Ginny stepped out into the backyard and found the Hero of the Wizarding World blubbering and clutching something in his hand. She didn't speak—what was there to say? She only held him in her arms and let his tears run their course.


	7. Screamed

God, but it takes me forever to write these chapters!

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**Day 007**

**The First Day He Screamed After the War**

Cooking with magic was like conducting an orchestra. Mrs. Weasley teased the milk and eggs out of the refrigerator, then, with two brief flicks, cracked two choice eggs into a bowl. A fluid motion poured a small portion of milk above them. As a whisk whipped the two ingredients together, she coaxed some bread and cinnamon from the cabinet. Harry thought, like music, it was beautiful and relaxing.

_Crack!_

Someone appeared.

Unbidden, Harry parted his lips and gave a shout, diving towards Mrs. Weasley. Someone was here! He had to save her—

A pair of hands grabbed him. He kicked, struggled, screamed again—

"Mate, calm down! It's me! It's George!"

At once, the fear and panic left him. He awkwardly rose to his feet, embarrassed. Mrs. Weasley and George, after noting his reddened cheeks, both silently continued to orchestrate breakfast.

Harry watched them work. It was no longer peaceful, though, and he eventually left.


End file.
